


By Any Other Name

by inkedinserendipity



Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Other, catch me throwing this up before kabert breaks our hearts with heart of it all part two, hey wait come back this fic has a happy ending WAIT COME BACK, inspired by my love of juno steel and a lot of thoughts about the last name 'ransom', marked tone change between the first and second halves also
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-09
Updated: 2020-10-09
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:20:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26908027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkedinserendipity/pseuds/inkedinserendipity
Summary: Peter Nureyev is issued an ultimatum. The Carte Blanche loses not one of its members, but two.On the surface of New Kinshasa, a man with nothing left to lose pays off his final debt.
Relationships: Aurinko Crime Family & Juno Steel, Peter Nureyev/Juno Steel, Rita & Juno Steel
Comments: 26
Kudos: 112





	By Any Other Name

**Author's Note:**

> first off: shoutout to the penumbra discord for enabling the hell out of this fic, especially for pointing out the various and painful ways the last name "ransom" could come back to haunt us. those conversations were physically painful and led directly to this getting written, so cheers!

“If I ever see your face again, thief,” Vespa snarls, “I’m taking your head clean off your shoulders.”

“Understood,” says Peter Nureyev, and closes his comms.

* * *

Three strong knocks on the door. “Rita?”

“Oh, Mista Jet,” Rita says. “Come in.”

The door opens, and he does. He’s almost comically large in her doorway, as he is in most of the doorways aboard the  _ Carte Blanche _ . “Hi,” she says, and pats the end of her bed. “It’s, uh, good to see you.”

“And it is good to see you too, Rita,” Jet says gravely. “I was…hoping I might join you.”

“Yeah, sure,” Rita says, unbalancing as he sits on the edge of her bed. She hesitates for a moment before shuffling closer to him. He holds out his arm, and she tucks herself against his side, pretending for a moment his chest is less barrel-like, his arm thinner but still roped, and then she buries her face in his ribs.

“Oh, Rita,” he murmurs, his solemn voice gentle. “I am so sorry.”

“It’s okay,” she sniffles, winding her arms tight across her own chest. “It’s okay, I know I ain’t—I ain’t the only person who cared a whole lot about him, Mista Jet, and the whole crew’s real mad in their own ways ‘cept Miss Vespa just sorta scares me and I ain’t seen the Captain at all today even when I went to go get my snacks even though I ain’t even picked  _ up _ my snacks and I know you—I know he—you and Mista—”

She buries her face in his side again, and Jet shushes her softly, his calloused fingers deceptively gentle as they thread through her hair. “I know,” Jet says. “Each of us will deal with loss in our own way. My way is that of reflection.”

Rita mouths a soft  _ oh _ . “I like the sound of that,” Rita says weakly, “but I don’t know if I’m ready for any reflectin’ just yet. I still…I can’t.”

“I know,” Jet says again, and tugs her closer. He’s sturdy and exceptionally comforting and even though Rita feels mostly empty right now she’s glad he’s here. “That is not your way to mourn. I have always admired how freely you allow yourself to feel as you do. When you are ready to talk about it, I am here.”

He holds her close. Several long minutes pass that way, Rita’s shoulders shaking with sobs she can’t bring herself to vocalize, not like she would back—back when she was still just a secretary, ‘cause whenever her boss heard her crying he would always come grouching into the room and mutter something about making too much hot chocolate even though even back then she  _ knew _ he never made hot chocolate for himself even though it was one of his favorite drinks and then he’d sit next to her and start ranting about whatever was on the screen and then he’d ask her in his earnest, awkward way what pissed her off, and it would always be funny a little because Rita’s not really an angry person and she don’t really  _ get _ mad but she’d talk about what made her sad, and he never really knew exactly the right things to say but he always tried, and that always mattered so much more.

She misses him. She misses him so much.

Jet’s shoulders shake around her exactly once, and when she looks up, startled from her grief, she sees tears moving soundlessly down his cheeks as well.

“Oh, Mista Jet,” she whispers.

“He was good,” Jet manages, his voice breaking like Rita has never quite heard it before. “When I reflect on all that he was, this is what I think of first: he was good.”

* * *

“No, Vespa.”

“I can find him,” Vespa hisses. “Or the hacker can. Siquliak’d probably come with me, even if  _ you _ won’t.”

“Vespa, darling,” Buddy says, looking exhausted. “He’s dangerous. We know that now.”

“That wasn’t a  _ revelation _ ,” Vespa snarls. “We knew he was dangerous from minute one and yet we still decided to sign him on because we thought he’d be a good addition to our family. And we were wrong. And he hurt—one of us, so now I’m going to kill him.”

“And what will that do, hm?” Buddy looks up from her glass for the first time since Vespa had stopped pacing the halls of the  _ Carte Blanche _ to pace instead inside their shared quarters, cursing and growling and planning in the same breath. “Death does not beget more life, my darling. This—this quest for vengeance, it won’t fix anything. It will only put you in danger.”

“He deserves to die,” Vespa snaps. “Or did you somehow forget what he  _ did? _ He betrayed all of us, Bud. We took him in and gave him a  _ family _ . You called him your son. And he—he—”

“You must forgive me my selfishness,” Buddy says, fingers shaking around her glass. “But I have already lost two of my family today. I would much prefer not to lose another.”

* * *

“I trust you have received my payment,” says the thief named Peter Nureyev, his back ramrod-straight, his hands unshaking.

“We have,” says the Monsieur Rossignol, letting a self-satisfied smirk playing around the edges of his lips for only a moment before it dissipates. “A splendid centerpiece that Globe will make. You’ve done well for us, Peter Nureyev.”

“A thief must always pay his debts.”

“Ah, yes. The first rule of thieving, I believe that was.”

Peter Nureyev does not flinch. Instead he says, “Is there anything else?”

Rossignol pretends to think, drumming his fingertips on the table. “Well, Peter,” he says, voice musing. “Your payment is rather behind schedule.”

“I delivered exactly what I promised—”

“Several days beyond your deadline, which may I remind you, you set yourself,” Rossignol finishes, lifting a single hand. “You are aware how compound interest works, as we both know. You are also aware that it renews annually.”

“Yes, and I paid my debt in full.”

“The principal balance, yes. But your interest rates have, hm…well. Increased since last year, shall we say.”

For the first time, Peter Nureyev’s façade cracks. Rossignol does not hide the glee that gives him. “Ridiculous. I paid my interest three times over.”

“Ah, well, you know how difficult these times have been. Particularly here on the Outer Rim.”

“Oh, yes, because the Barachiel Corporation has done such an  _ excellent _ job rebuilding this planet—”

“Your place is not to criticize my work, thief,” Rossignol says smoothly. “Your place is to repay your debts. And if it is any consolation, what you now owe is  _ far _ less than what you owed before.”

“No.”

Rossignol raises an eyebrow. Strange; the hard set of the thief’s mouth shakes. Nervousness, perhaps. Rage is ugly on his face. “Beg pardon?”

“I refuse.”

The second eyebrow raises the first, then both lower. “Very well then.”

“I’m glad we can see eye-to-eye.”

Save the quiver of rage, the once-renowned Angel of Brahma seems expressionless. “Surely. Well then. Who would you like for us to target next? Buddy Aurinko, was that her name?”

And oh, there it is. When Peter Nureyev speaks next his voice is shattered, his whole body shaking. “You already took from me the person I love most in this world,” he snarls. “You have taken my name. What else do I have to lose? My old  _ Captain _ , who would just as soon see me dead? My name, which links me to the defining moment of my life, trying to destroy you? No, I have failed on all counts, countless times over, and I do not  _ care _ . Do what you will, Rossignol. I will not play your game anymore.”

“The nameless thief, willingly handing over his identity,” Rossignol says, almost awestruck. And to think that  _ he _ was the one to bring Peter Nureyev so low. In his moments of honesty this, the key to manipulating the most skilled thief in the world, fell into his lap by chance. But the Monsieur Rossignol is nothing if not a man of opportunity, and this stroke of chance has paid dividends over and over again. “Who will you even be? Do you mean to simply die?”

“I do not care,” Peter Nureyev repeats, the words brandished toward him like a shield. “I don’t care what you do with my name, for you to attack the crew of the  _ Carte Blanche _ would be for you to do me a favor, even my—my life savings, pitiful as you’ve made them—you may as well take them. I don’t care. I have lost  _ everything _ , Rossignol, and I will fade into obscurity before I earn another cent on the behalf of a man as vile and wretched as yourself.”

Rossignol leans back. He lets a long, slow smile creep over his face. The thief before him is disheveled, red-faced, and now that Rossignol knows to look for it, sees grief in the slant of every muscle. What was the name of the lady he’d had Nureyev kill? Juno Steel? A pity.

“Well,” he says, self-satisfaction thick in his throat. Look at him: this man, this galaxy-class thief, brought so low by Rossignol’s own handiwork. “I suppose that’s it then: I reveal your name, and after that you’re hardly useful to me. You won’t be able to steal much of anything, ever again.”

The anger and rage and grief retracts, stuffed behind a mask choked with exhaustion. In this moment Peter Nureyev looks more tired than any other man Rossignol has ever seen. “Fine,” he says. “Do as you will with my name. Just…do not contact me, ever again.”

“Or what?” Rossignol asks, curious. “You’ll kill me?”

“Oh, no,” Peter Nureyev says, laughing a quiet, broken thing. “If I could have done that, I would have done so the moment I laid eyes on you. Goodbye, Monsieur Rossignol. To whatever angels are out there, I pray you will rot in hell.”

* * *

Peter Nureyev’s comms ring. He does not answer.

First he removes his coat. Then he pushes his hair back from his face. There is still a faint tremor in his hand, small enough be noticeable to only the handful of people who know him best in the world.

His comms ring again. His hand pauses over the device until, with a sigh, he picks it up.

“Nureyev speaking.”

“Wanna tell me where you are?”

“Vespa,” Nureyev sighs. He should be afraid, perhaps, but so soon after his conversation with Rossignol he’s struggling to feel anything at all. “How delightful to speak with you again. I assume you ask so that you may kill me.”

“I would  _ love _ to do worse,” Vespa snarls. “I should. I fucking _ should _ . Hey, Nureyev, did you know that Steel loved you?”

“Stop.”

“Do you think he even realized what you were going to do before you—”

“Stop it, Vespa.”

“Why?” she demands. “Why should I stop? Did you even think  _ twice _ before stabbing through his spine?”

Nureyev removes the comms from his ear, takes a deep breath. Oh, there it is again, the way his whole body shakes. It is new, that he cannot push this away. She continues speaking, but Nureyev filters it out and waits until she finishes.

He puts the comms to his ear again. “I did what I had to do,” he says, calm, and hangs up.

It rings back immediately, of course. He doesn’t bother picking up.

The hotel room he bought as a base of organization to conduct this final transaction is bare, empty save Nureyev himself. The walls are dusty and splattered with odd stains, the lone drawer in the lone table in the lone room adjacent on its hinges, the carpet threadbare and patterned unnaturally. It is a storied room, but Nureyev does not have a detective’s eye, so he cannot read the words written beneath the fibers of the carpet, nor the ones behind room’s thin walls.

The uncomfortable mattress remains dented from where a body laid in it just a few hours ago. Nureyev sits on the mattress, studying the curve of the pillow for a long time, before lowering himself into that phantom warmth and closing his eyes in a pale facsimile of sleep.

* * *

Afternoon turns to evening turns to a very early morning. Peter Nureyev does not open his eyes.

* * *

Somewhere around dawn his comms ring again. Limbs heavy, he picks up. He doesn’t bother introducing himself.

“Buddy insisted I give you a courtesy warning,” growls the voice of Vespa Ilkay. “The hacker’s got a lock on this comms, and Siquliak and I are very, very happy to see you.”

“Do you want me to run?” Some long-buried part of him is vaguely curious why she’s even called.

He can hear her grin through the call. “I would love nothing more.”

* * *

About an hour later, a global news alert flashes across his comm’s screen:  _ Barachiel Corporation Head Monsieur Rossignol Found Dead in Unowned Vault; No Foul Play Suspected, Officials Blame Preexisting Heart Conditions _ .

For a moment, Nureyev stares at the screen. Tension unspools from his shoulders in degrees, his expression easing, as the last mask Peter Nureyev will ever wear slips from his face. 

Slowly, slowly, the persona of the spurned Angel folds away, like so many ruffled feathers smoothing.

Then, for the first time in a very, very long time, Peter Nureyev smiles.

* * *

As he sprints through the streets of New Kinshasa, a long-dead part of him stirs, and from somewhere inside of him—a ghost, or a memory—he hears an old melody. Something sweet and slightly haunting. He remembers it being played on a guitar.

Faces turn as he passes, this strange unknown man sprinting through the streets, but after so long concerned with his own invisibility Peter Nureyev simply does not  _ care _ . He could call a cab—one would not be hard to find, not in this area of New Kinshasa—but for some strange reason, he doesn’t want to speak. He’s spent so much of his life wasting words. Now, he wants to save them for the one person who matters most.

He arrives at the park in a rush, out-of-breath, hair windswept and legs trembling faintly with exertion, which is more a testament to the distance than to any physical ailment. There is no one else in the park, and when his eye catches on a café shrouded partially by trees, he thinks giddily that it would be so easy to go inside, order one cup of Venusian fine-ground coffee and another of Martian espresso with two sugars, and he could sit on the bench just beneath that tree, and he would not take a single sip until he was no longer alone.

So he does. He feels weightless. He moves into the café, and places exactly that order, checking over his shoulder every ten seconds, just to make sure he won’t have to wait any longer than he has to. When the order arrives, the barista is studying him with no small amount of concern, and his hands are shaking and he is absolutely sure his grin looks maniacal, but for the first time in a public place he knows that his face is not wearing the expression it should and he simply  _ does not care _ .

He carries those two cups carefully to the shade of the bench, and sits.

He does not have to wait long. A shape materializes on the path directly across from where Nureyev sits, and even shrouded by the water’s spray Nureyev knows immediately who it is, of course he does. He sets the coffees down, laughing to himself at how naïve he had been to think he would want his hands full for this, and sprints to intercept the lady limping into the park by colliding bodily with that form.

“Was that a coffee in your hand,” Nureyev’s detective chuckles, “or are you just happy to see me?”

“Oh do shut up, dear.” Nureyev laughs too, holding Juno Steel tight to his chest. He feels jittery and squeezes him once, tight, before pulling back to hold Juno at arm’s length. “You’re not hurt, are you, Juno?”

“Not a scratch,” Juno confirms. “Well, except the one, y’know. On my back. But aside from that.”

“My impossible detective,” Nureyev says fondly. “I hope you know—”

“Oh, shut up,” Juno grumbles, then grabs his collar and drags him down into a kiss.

It is exactly as wonderful as the first time, that kiss that lit the first spark of love in Nureyev’s chest, and he sinks into it, forgetting entirely about the park, the fountain, the world around them, the coffee cooling on the bench. He winds his arms around Juno’s neck, feeling Juno’s settle securely across the small of his back, and feels relief crash through him all at once.

“Hey,” Juno says, leaning back, concerned. “Nureyev, are you—?”

“I’m fine, dear,” Nureyev manages through laughter, brushing his own tears away. “I was simply worried, dear, you know how I get—”

“I do,” Juno says, and reaches up to cradle Nureyev’s face in his hands. Two calloused thumbs wipe with infinite gentleness along his cheeks, and Nureyev lets himself drift forward, tugged as always toward the sunlight that is Juno Steel, eyes falling closed as Juno’s forehead presses against his own. “Hey. Nureyev.”

“Hm?”

“I love you.”

Nureyev lets out a sob that could be a laugh; even he’s not quite sure what it is. He takes one of Juno’s hands in his own, presses a kiss to the palm of the other. “I bought us coffee,” Nureyev says, leading his detective back to the bench. “Martian espresso. The cafes in New Kinshasa are the envy of the Outer Rim, and I think this one might remind you of home.”

Juno sits next to Nureyev, planting himself firmly on the wood in a mirror to Nureyev’s careless grace, and brings the cup to his lips. His eye widens. “Damn,” he mutters. “You weren’t kidding. I, uh...you know I don’t need this to feel at home.”

“Oh, Juno,” Nureyev murmurs. “I don’t deserve you, my love.”

Juno elbows him, to show him how little he appreciates that comment, no doubt. Nureyev takes a sip of his own coffee, and lets the sweet taste settle over his tongue.

“He was right where you said he’d be,” Juno says after a moment. “You pick that vault number? 624?” 

“Of course. So what was it, my dear detective? A high-speed chase, perhaps?” 

“A stakeout,” Juno snorts, “since you sorta gave me the key. Besides, for such a high-end bank, their security was kinda shit.”

“Yes, well, most thieves aren’t given the chance to hone their skills,” Nureyev says, fighting to keep the darkness from his tone. “Most are, well, dealt with. Before they can become truly great.”

Juno just looks at him, that one dark eye flickering with concern and patience and love. Then he nods and leans into Nureyev’s side, head dropping against his shoulder. Nureyev looks down just as Juno’s eye closes, and all of him—tattered coat, the scuff marks high on his cheekbone, the eyepatch slightly askew on his face—relaxes in his presence.

It feels like a gift. Like the most precious treasure Nureyev has ever stolen—though it was not stolen, but gifted. Given freely.

He winds an arm across Juno’s shoulders, and together, they sit beneath the rising sun of New Kinshasa.

When the sound of a hovercraft landing explodes across the plaza, Nureyev says, “Ah.”

Juno sits upright. “Is it Barachiel?”

“No, not quite,” Nureyev says, trepidation settling over him. “No. Juno, there’s something I quite—hm.”

Juno’s spotted the landingcraft, and is on his feet before something clicks visibly and he turns back to Nureyev. Not quite wary, but perhaps a little anxious. “Nureyev, what haven’t you told me?”

“Juno, my love, you know that things sometimes slip my mind, particularly when I am…stressed?”

“Yes,” Juno says impatiently. “What is it?”

“I may have, ah…gotten a call from the crew.”

“Oh, shit. You didn’t pick up, though, did you?”

“I did.”

“Nureyev! We  _ talked _ about this, Rita could—”

“And she did. And our dear doctor might be quite determined to kill me.”

Juno looks at him for one long, long moment. Then he swears, and loudly. “Oh, goddamnit, you didn’t  _ explain—?” _

“I was more preoccupied with making sure you were okay, Juno!”

“They’re coming to kill you, Nureyev!”

“Yes, well, I suppose you’d best go talk them down, hm?”

Juno sighs, his lovely irascible detective, a scowl settling over his features. He brandishes a finger toward Nureyev and says, “You owe me for this, Nureyev.”

“I would expect nothing less.”

“Big time.”

“Of course.” It is a debt he welcomes.

Juno turns, then pauses, then turns back and grabs Nureyev’s collar and kisses him again. “I’m angry that you didn’t at least call Rita,” he says. “But we’ll deal with that later.”

Across the square, the  _ Carte Blanche _ ’s small shuttle decompresses. “It wasn’t just Rita, Juno, my love,” Nureyev says quietly. “You should know that.”

Juno stills again. Then he tilts his head in silent acknowledgement. “I’ll be back,” he promises.

And Nureyev believes him.

* * *

First through the doors is Jet, a blaster in his hand set to kill. His eyes flick past Juno, to Nureyev, before refocusing on Juno with an impossibly long pause. He stares. Juno opens his mouth to say something, probably something stupid knowing himself, except then Vespa crawls out the hatch and lands on the ground in a crouch and sees him immediately.

She looks to Jet, and Juno says, “Not a hallucination.”

“I watched you die,” she snarls. “I watched Nureyev stab you in the back.”

“Collapsible knife and a bunch of blood bags,” Juno says. “Also one hell of a tranq. But I’m alive.”

Vespa stares. Jet stares, then turns and announces to the interior of the ship, “He is alive.”

“I rather expected so, darling, we’re here to kill him.”

“Not Peter Nureyev,” Jet clarifies. “I am referring to Juno.”

Fucking  _ immediately _ there is a clatter of an impossible number of footsteps, and moments later, Rita comes barreling out of the ship at top speed. She sees him, shrieks loud enough to startle the birds from the trees, yells “Mista  _ Steel, _ I thought you were dead!” and then barrels directly into his chest.

Juno stumbles a considerable number of feet, laughing despite himself. “Rita, hey, I’m okay, I’m alive—”

“I know, boss, I can see that! How’re you alive? Was it some kinda miraculous resurrection or some kinda kiss of life or  _ oh! Oh!  _ Did your spirit just decide you weren’t gonna die ‘cause you had business that you ain’t finished back in the mortal world ‘cause you gotta go kill Mista Nureyev—”

“None of that,” Juno interrupts, and kneels before her. “He, uh...I had to get him out of a bad spot.” 

“By pretendin’ to be  _ dead?” _

“Actually, yeah,” Juno winces. Behind her, Buddy Aurinko emerges from the shuttlecraft, her eyes immediately finding his and holding them for just a moment before striding forward. Juno pulls Rita into another hug and says, “I’m so sorry we had to make you think I was dead, Rita. If there was any other way, we would’ve taken it. I’m sorry.”

“Just a moment, darling,” Buddy says. “We?”

Juno kisses the top of Rita’s forehead, closing his eyes briefly, before letting her go and standing again. “We were being held ransom,” he says. This doesn’t seem like the time for long-winded explanations, and Vespa’s grace period before her anger runs out and she decides to just stab Nureyev for the hell of it—are her cheeks  _ blotched? _ —is probably pretty short. “All of us. You know Nureyev’s name. To get off New Kinshasa and Brahma the first time, he took out a loan that the Rossignols took over. They found out he was working with us and upped his debt when they realized they had more collateral.”

Silence stretches out before them, long and dumbfounded. Juno takes a deep breath, then blows it out. “We needed to clear his debts and remove their collateral. Make him think that you didn’t matter to him anymore and drop Rossignol’s guard. There weren’t…this was the best we could come up with. Rossignol’s dead now, but that, uh, isn’t really my story to tell.” He turns and waves, and Nureyev, nervousness telegraphed in every movement of those long limbs of his, stands.

“Well then,” Buddy says, brushing her fireball hair back from her face, allowing Juno a rare glimpse of her cybernetic eye. “That’s one hell of a story, darling.”

“Yeah. All true, too.”

“And you could think of nothing else.”

“Yeah,” Juno says awkwardly. “There weren’t—Nureyev, uh…I mean, I can’t speak for him. But he, uh…you guys matter. There wasn’t much else we could….”

“I’m glad you’re okay, boss,” Rita says.

“Thanks, Rita.”

“As am I.”

“Oh, uh, thanks, big guy, that’s—”

“I was getting ready to skin Nureyev,” Vespa announces, which Juno takes a moment to parse as a compliment.

“Uh—”

“You had all of us quite riled up, darling. Enough to have us all embarking on a crusade for vengeance and everything.”

“Right. Yeah. Sorry, Captain.”

“Forgiven, darling.” She takes two long steps toward him and hugs him, smelling of cinnamon whiskey, and Juno leans into the embrace, taken aback and overwhelmed. “I’m glad you’re alive.”

“Thank you.”

“And if you do it again, darling, this mechanical heart may well fail for good, so I would request that you do not do anything like this,  _ ever _ again.”

“Oh—”

“Miss Vespa was  _ real _ mad,” Rita chirps. “And I was pretty angry too! Didn’t even realize I was so mad until Mista Jet pointed it out!”

“We spent much of last night sharing stories and discussing how deeply we both cared for you.”

“Okay,” Juno says, bewildered. Making sense of this is far harder than investigating and tailing Rossignol had been. “Should I—what kind of stories?”

“All good ones, boss!”

“That is untrue. Several of the ones Rita shared with me were quite sad.”

“Some of them were from, y’know, right after the HCPD and all that,” Rita stage-whispers. “Sorry, boss. I thought you were dead.”

“It’s all right, Rita.”

“If anything, it only heightened my opinion of you. I hope that is a comfort, Juno.”

“Sure,” Juno says weakly. “I don’t want to know. I mean I do, but not right now. You all, uh….” Juno trails off, unsure how to even  _ ask _ . “You—”

“I don’t know if somehow the quest for vengeance escaped your notice, Steel, but yes, we  _ care _ ,” Vespa spits. “Obviously. So get those tears out of your eyes and keep me from gutting Nureyev with my knife, because trust me, Steel, it’s still really,  _ really _ tempting.”

“Which she says mostly because of how angry she was,” Buddy says.

“Hey! Bud!”

Buddy shrugs, smiling in the way that only Vespa can pull from her, playful and sincere. “I’m hardly lying, dearest.”

“That doesn’t mean you should just—”

“Nureyev.”

Vespa’s attention snaps back to Juno, and then to the man just by Juno’s shoulder. Juno follows Jet’s gaze to Nureyev, his tread utterly silent in his nervousness, and motions Nureyev closer with his shoulder. Quietly, reassuringly, he takes Nureyev’s hand.

“Hello,” Nureyev says, and Juno tries his level best not to wince.

Vespa is not so considerate. “Nice,” she snaps. “Way to begin these next few minutes in which you’ll be begging for your life.”

“Vespa, dearest,” Buddy murmurs. Then, to Nureyev: “So. Juno is alive.”

“Ah, yes, Captain.”

One of Buddy’s brows half-arches at the title. Nureyev flinches minutely, and Juno squeezes Nureyev’s hand reassuringly. She doesn’t comment, however, and instead says, “You didn’t kill him, then.”

“No. Not—no.”

“Typically this is where you would explain yourself, darling,” Buddy says dryly.

“Right,” Nureyev says, and for once his anxieties are plain on his face. Juno is so, so proud of him. “So. You all know who I am by now, I am sure. This…place, the planet below it, was my home.”

“Brahma,” Vespa rasps. “Outer Rim.”

Nureyev nods to her. “Yes. More specifically, I was its  _ Angel _ ,” Nureyev sighs, contempt and exhaustion lacing the word. Vespa’s brows shoot to the top of her forehead, jaw going slack. “And before I became the nameless thief, my name was—well. My name was Peter Nureyev.”

Juno nudges him, just slightly. Nureyev’s gaze flicks to Juno briefly before he clears his throat and corrects himself. “Is,” he says. “My name is Peter Nureyev.”

There is a long moment of silence. Then Jet says, “I am Jet Siquliak.”

“Yes, I—”

“And I’m  _ Rita! _ ” Rita half-cheers, startling the birds that had tentatively resettled in its branches into flight.

“Well then. I suppose I’m Buddy Aurinko, famed thief and Juno-proclaimed ‘human fireball’.”

“This is stupid,” Vespa says, and Buddy says, “Vespa, darling,” and Vespa glares daggers at Nureyev and spits like the words jab like knives into her tongue, “Vespa Ilkay, which you  _ know already.” _

“Yes, well.” Nureyev blinks, a little breathless. “Thank you all for that. It is, um…good. To meet you. Again.”

“And you as well, darling,” Buddy says. “Well, I’ll be honest with you all. Losing a daughter and then finding him again does absolutely no good for a mechanical heart, and finding out that your son is still your son after all is even more so, so I find myself  _ quite _ exhausted. I’m sure yours is quite the riveting story, Pete, Juno, but if you don’t mind I’d much rather hear it in the comfort of our home.”

“Oh,” Nureyev says quietly, and Juno’s heart aches. “I…would like that. Very much.”

Buddy cocks her head at him. Then she says, “You know what, darling? I believe you.”

Then she disappears through the hatch and into the belly of the shuttle.

“I’m still furious with you,” Vespa growls. “I haven’t forgiven you for anything.”

“I could expect nothing less.”

“If you ever hurt Mista Steel like you pretended to, I’ll tear you apart,” Rita says cheerfully. “But also I’m real glad you ain’t evil after all ‘cause I like you a lot, Mista Nureyev! Besides we still got a  _ ton _ of streams we gotta finish and I was gonna play one from Brahma but now I’m thinkin’ maybe that ain’t such a great idea and we’ll save that for much much later.”

They vanish. Jet lingers for a moment, watching Rita clamber into the hatch after Vespa, then turns to Nureyev, who stiffens anxiously under the scrutiny.

Jet clears his throat.

“It did not escape me that it was us held for ransom for your debts, Peter Nureyev.”

Nureyev’s gaze flicks to Juno again, who shrugs slightly. He didn’t really see much point in hiding that particular detail, not after everything. “Ah, yes. That is true.”

Jet nods. He says, “When I was the Unnatural Disaster, it was caring for Buddy that pulled me out of my violent habits. I am no longer the man I once was. And I do not think you are the man I thought you were. I look forward to meeting Peter Nureyev, because although I know little of him, what I have learned of him leads me to respect him already.”

Then he turns and goes.

Nureyev makes a quiet choked-off noise and Juno turns and silently pulls him into his arms.

“I’m sorry,” Nureyev manages into Juno’s shoulder, one hand raising to grip Juno’s shoulderblade tightly. “I did not think—I hardly imagined—”

“I know,” Juno murmurs. “Incredible, aren’t they?”

“Quite,” Nureyev sob-laughs, burying his face in Juno’s shoulder. He slumps against Juno, bone-deep exhaustion heavy on Juno’s skin, and Juno holds him. Then, after a long moment, he leans back, wiping his own eyes and smiling. “That went…so much better than I expected.”

Juno scoffs. “I knew it was gonna go that well.”

“No you didn’t, my love.”

“Maybe I didn’t,” Juno admits. “But it doesn’t surprise me.”

Nureyev takes Juno’s hand and leads him toward the shuttle, primed already to return them home. “No?”

“No,” Juno says decisively. “They didn’t want to hate you, Nureyev. They just—I mean, you can’t have betrayal if you don’t first have trust. That’s why they were so angry.”

Nureyev is silent. Juno takes the ladder first, then turns to help Nureyev, quite unnecessarily, through the hatch. Juno sits by Rita, and Nureyev, he is unsurprised to see, sits wordlessly by Jet.

Jet, who moves over to accommodate his place.

“Well then, darlings,” Buddy says from the cockpit, Vespa in the co-pilot’s seat. “Homeward we go.”

* * *

“Okay, so this one’s  _ real _ special,” Rita announces, brandishing the stream’s cover in front of them. In flashes Juno can make out a tall, thin man with outstretched wings. “And it’s probably also gonna be real weird but I’ve wanted to watch it for months and months and months now, ever since I found out Mista Nureyev’s real name! And I ain’t seen it so I don’t know how good it is but I thought it’d be a great stream to watch with the whole family!”

“Oh no,” says Nureyev.

“Oh yes,” Rita cheers, flicking the stream on and squishing herself into Juno’s other side, burrowing into his ribs until he lifts his arm to pull her close by the shoulders. “Time for a family night special:  _ The Angel of Brahma!” _

The opening sequence begins. Nureyev’s forehead lands solidly on Juno’s other shoulder, and Juno laughs. “Nervous?”

“Embarrassed,” Nureyev mutters. “Juno, my—the—Mag—”

“No one knew,” Juno murmurs. “It couldn’t show up in the movie. And honestly, from the cover, it was rebel-made, right? Probably gonna paint you in a real flattering light.”

“Hardly true to life.”

“I don’t know,” Juno says musingly, and turns to drop a kiss to the back of Nureyev’s head. “I don’t think so.”

“You flatter me, my love.”

“You make it easy.”

Nureyev laughs softly, turning his head to nestle into the crook of Juno’s neck. “I love you, Juno Steel.”

The opening sequence fades to black. An anticipatory hush falls along the family: Buddy and Vespa curled against one arm of the couch, Rita’s legs sprawled over Jet’s lap, her head butting into Juno’s shoulders, Juno’s fingers twined with Nureyev’s as his forehead dips slightly into Juno’s collarbone. Juno adjusts the blanket over Nureyev and Rita both.

Juno turns his head for just a moment to rest his cheekbone atop Nureyev’s head, and murmurs, simple and soft, “I love you too.” 

**Author's Note:**

> yes nureyev's vault number spells MAG. why are you throwing eggs at me
> 
> if you liked this, drop your favorite line in the comments! also, catch me on tumblr at [inkedinserendipity](http://inkedinserendipity.tumblr.com) for more of this nonsense


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